


Don't Cry Over Spilt Clocks

by thedalishparade



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Band References, Fluff, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pangings, Picnic, Picnic scene, Purely introspective, Unrequited Love, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 09:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14209968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedalishparade/pseuds/thedalishparade
Summary: There are children everywhere, constantly tripping over themselves or wiping snot off their pudgy cheeks. Oswald doesn’t see the appeal here. The little ones had always held a certain air of repulsiveness for him.





	Don't Cry Over Spilt Clocks

**Author's Note:**

> Ed and Oswald decide to have a picnic. Timeframe unknown. Heavily unedited. I’m tired and it’s late, so I’m just going to wing it.

> _I don't love you, I'm just passing the time_
> 
> _You could love me if I knew how to lie_
> 
> _But who could love me?_
> 
> _I am out of my mind_
> 
> _Throwing a line out to sea_
> 
> _To see if I can catch a dream_
> 
> _[-](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6gMectGO96A)  She Had the World; Panic at the Disco_

 

There are children everywhere, constantly tripping over themselves or wiping snot off their pudgy cheeks. Oswald doesn’t see the appeal here. The little ones had always held a certain air of repulsiveness for him.

 

But he doesn’t pay attention to them. What he does pay attention to, though, is the man sitting next to him, their fingers casually intertwined.

It used to irritate Oswald at first, the way Ed never really seemed to have a sense of personal space. The way he’d either be leaning in too close, towering over the smaller man to the point of infuriating him, or staring so boldly, so starkly with those twin sniper orbs of his.

 

Ironically, the more it’s lessened as Ed grows more accustomed to his company, the more Oswald yearns for it. He’s shunned the semblance of comforting touches after his mother’s death; perhaps it’s why he hated Ed so much at first. Ed had been so needy back then at their first meeting, so blindingly loud, as if he wanted to be the centre point - no, the entirety - of Oswald’s attention.

 

Ed has lovely fingers. The digits of a pianist, long and slender. Oswald’s are stubby in comparison, blanched like a corpse where Ed’s are that one perfect milky shade.

They twitch. Oswald glances up, and Ed is grinning down at him, lemon tart in hand, and squeezes him gently with the other. Oswald smiles back.

 

They look away, and Oswald feels almost guilty when he checks his watch. Nine in the afternoon; the sun is bound to turn on its heel and soon enough it’ll be time to go home. Oswald’s heart sinks. He just wants this one endless moment to last longer; for the sunshine to caress his hair for a few more years, for the ease of their dynamic to be like this everyday.

 

And most of all, Oswald wants something more. It feeds on him everyday, the guilt of wanting something he can never have, and the parallels between him, Ed, and the couple out there on the lonely bench are a mockery of the life they could have together.

 

Oswald thinks he is deluding himself with the idea and shrinks away from the possibilities. The criminal mentality in Gotham focuses on the future, and ever the follower, Oswald has taken on the ideal. It is years from now, when his hair is grey and his friend is gone, that he will truly feel the pain of feelings gone sour.


End file.
